


Empire of Dust

by xXdreameaterXx



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005), field of blood
Genre: Crossover, F/M, doctor who / field of blood, you know what major character death I'm talking about
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-12
Updated: 2015-08-08
Packaged: 2018-03-17 14:08:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 14
Words: 19,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3532145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xXdreameaterXx/pseuds/xXdreameaterXx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In an attempt to save the Doctor one of Clara's echoes faces a Weeping Angel that transports her back to Glasgow in 1981. Lost and lonely she encounters Dr Pete, a man who seems just as lost and just a lonely. With nowhere else to go Clara decides to stick around because misery always loves company. Doctor Who / Field of Blood crossover. Echo!Clara/Dr Pete. Rated E for later chapters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Empire of Dust**

**Chapter 1: Prologue**

Clara took a deep breath, the cold air stinging in her lungs. Her hands instinctively wandered to her upper arms, attempting to protect the bare skin against the cold. She had to open her eyes and she knew it, only she was afraid of what she would find. Less than a minute ago Clara Oswin Oswald had been standing in her warm classroom in Cardiff, 2078, fighting against creatures of stone along with a mysterious, young man called the Doctor, who had appeared out of nowhere. He had told her what the creatures did and despite his warnings she had closed her eyes eventually, hoping she had given the man enough time to escape. Clara had made a decision, knowing the stranger would not be able to save her, but she felt that it had been the right thing to do. Only now she got scared.   
A car horn and the sound of an approaching engine forced her to finally open her eyes and Clara jumped out of the way at the last moment. _Cars_. That was a good sign. Wherever - or rather whenever - she was, cars already existed but when Clara started to look around she found that nothing else looked familiar. The city seemed as strange to her as the almost empty streets. The worst part however was that she was wearing a summer dress and it was starting to snow. The few people that were passing her barely granted her a glance and Clara knew that if she couldn't find someone to help her she would freeze to death before the night was over. 

A few houses ahead of her a pub door opened and Clara watched a man, obviously drunk, stagger outside. She soon realized that this pub might be her last resort. It definitely looked warm enough. But how long would they let her stay when they learned that she had no money on her?  
“Hey, lassie!” a gravelly voice interrupted her thoughts. _Lassie_? The man sounded Scottish. Did she end up in Scotland?  
Clara turned to look at the man who had just left the bar. By the way he clung to the wall he was definitely drunk. She should just ignore him and head for the inside of the pub. The last thing she needed right now was being harassed by an intoxicated stranger.   
“Do you have a death wish?” he proceeded to ask, his words nothing but a slur, “Put some clothes on or you'll freeze to death!”  
Clara approached him carefully. In his state he seemed harmless enough for her to walk past him.   
“I was just about to go inside,” she replied.   
The man leaned his back against the wall and snorted.   
“In that dress? They'll tear you apart. Here,” he clumsily stripped out of his own coat and handed it to Clara, “Put that on.”  
“But then you'll be cold,” she countered, hesitant to take it.  
“I'm half dead anyway. And not far from home. Put it on, lassie.”  
Clara finally accepted the coat and put it on. She instantly felt better and warmer, although it smelled of smoke and alcohol and a heavy aftershave.   
“Thank you,” Clara uttered shyly, wondering what she should do next. Leaving him now seemed like an extremely rude thing to do.  
“You're welcome,” the man uttered but as soon as he had finished his sentence, he seemed to be bothered by a sharp pain and Clara watched him convulse and reach for his side.   
“Are you alright?” she asked immediately.  
The man looked back at her, attempting a smile, but the pain was audible in his voice. “Nothing either you or I could do about it. I'm going home. You go wherever.”  
He turned around and attempted to walk away, but stopped after a few metres and crouched down against the wall. Clara was suddenly overrun by a guilty conscience. She felt pity for the man who had helped her and who was obviously not feeling well. She would be a poor excuse of a good human being if she didn't at least try to help him in return.  
“Sir, you're not feeling well. Do you want me to call you a cab?” Clara asked, bending down to his level.  
“No, I live around the corner. I can walk,” he replied stubbornly.  
Clara put her arms akimbo. She wasn't exactly keen on arguing with him, God knows she's had enough of that with her pupils this morning so Clara went straight into teacher-mode.   
“Clearly you can't,” she said in the strictest voice she could muster, “If that's the speed you'll be going it's you who's going to freeze to death.”  
The stranger stared back at her, a sad smile forming on his lips.  
“Give me back my coat then.”  
“I've got a better idea. I'll take you home,” she said determinedly, reaching under the man's arms to pull him up with all the strength she had, “Come on, lean on me.”  
“I can walk,” he claimed, but Clara cut him off.  
“No, you can't. Now shut up and do as you're told!”

Clara was glad that the man had finally stopped arguing. Propped up against her he slowly made his way along the pavement and for a while neither of them said anything. When they had reached a crossroad he told her to turn left.  
“You're very kind,” he said suddenly, “What's your name?”  
“Clara. Clara Oswin Oswald,” she replied, “And yours?”  
“Everyone just calls me Dr Pete,” he explained.  
“Let's drop the title, the name's enough for me.”

Clara was surprised when Pete suddenly stopped, but assumed that they had reached his apartment.  
“Is this where you live?” Clara asked, giving the building a disdainful look. It wasn't exactly the nicest of neighbourhoods, but then again: what had she expected from a man who had broken down drunk in front of a pub?  
“Yeah, top floor,” Pete replied, taking in a lungful of air as if to brace himself for a long climb.   
“I'll help you,” Clara said before he had to ask. She knew he wouldn't be able to do it on his own and probably end up sleeping in the hallway.   
“Thank you,” he said kindly. 

Even with Clara's help it wasn't easy to reach the top floor. Pete seemed to be in agony and it got worse with every step. She practically had to carry him up the last flight of stairs until they finally stopped in front of a door.   
It opened to a small, dusty apartment that seemed too dark despite the light and that probably hadn't been properly cleaned in 10 years. Books and newspapers piled up everywhere and the floor was hardly visible under all of them. Clara spotted an old couch, a crowded desk and a sort of kitchen at the opposite end of the room. Two doors were leading out of the room, one probably to the bedroom and the other to the bathroom. Everything seemed to reek of smoke and liquor and Clara had to refrain from wrinkling her nose.

Pete cleared his throat.  
“Well, thank you. It was very kind of you to take me home. If I can make it up to you somehow you know where to find me,” he said, kicking off his shoes and making his way to one of the doors.   
“Actually,” Clara started and waited for him to turn around, “Would you mind if I slept on your couch tonight? I don't know where else to go.”  
Pete gave her a long, inquiring look, obviously too drunk or too tired to argue and finally shrugged. “Fine by me.”  
Before Clara could thank him Pete had closed the bedroom door behind him, leaving her alone in a strange apartment. In a strange city. In a strange time.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've realized that some of my readers haven't watched or read Field of Blood. I truly recommend this to anyone. Peter Capaldi delivers an amazing performance yet again. If you don't have the time, don't worry. I'll explain Dr Peter throughout the story as Clara gets to know him.

**Chapter 2**

Clara couldn't tell exactly what had woken her up. She needed a moment to understand where she was, what had happened, but after a few seconds it all came back to her. The Weeping Angel, the strange place, the man who had allowed her to sleep on his couch.   
She was shivering beneath the old, thin blanket so Clara decided to get up and walk around quietly. The door to the bedroom was closed and she assumed Pete was still sleeping off his hangover.   
Clara needed to find out where and when she was so she went for the stack of newspapers that had collected the least dust and started reading. It didn't take her long to realize that she had obviously landed in Glasgow in 1982. Clara took a deep breath. She had been transported back almost 100 years into the past. She had nothing except for the clothes she was wearing. No money, no papers. Another deep breath. She was a strong woman. She would manage somehow. After all Clara was a teacher and teachers were always needed, right? All she really needed to do was to find a place to stay until she had it all figured out. And why not ask Pete for help? She would need a decent story as to how she came to be in Glasgow, a heartbreaking story so he couldn't possibly turn her down. She would find a job and she would get her own place. Couldn't be that hard, or could it?  
Dropping the newspaper back on its stack Clara made her way across the room to where she found the kitchen. If that could be called a kitchen at all. It was nothing but a counter with an embedded fridge and a stove.   
Maybe if she cooked him breakfast he would find her useful and let her stay? Clara opened the fridge and not surprisingly found it almost empty except for a few bottles of beer, milk and eggs.  
 _Scrambled eggs it is_ , she thought and went on to prepare breakfast as quietly as possible. When she had finished and started the coffee maker she still hadn't heard a single sound from the bedroom.   
Clara walked over to the door and knocked carefully. Nothing. She knocked a second and also a third time and when there was still no reply, she decided to enter and wake him up. It was past 8 already, if he had a job to go to, Pete was probably already late. 

Clara found him lying on his bed, still wearing the same clothes as yesterday and only roughly covered with a blanket. She took a moment to watch him. Clara hadn't really gotten a proper look in the dark the night before. It was almost impossible to tell his age, although if Clara had to guess she would place him in his 50s. His tousled hair was grey and his face was lined with trouble, but she couldn't say whether that was because of a normal ageing process or the way he treated himself. Even sleeping he looked utterly miserable.  
“Pete,” Clara asked softly and touched his shoulder.  
He groaned in response to her touch but reluctantly opened his eyes. She could tell he was having difficulty remembering who she was at first. After a moment Clara felt him relax under her touch. He remembered and she only now realized she was still holding his shoulder and quickly removed her hand.   
“I made breakfast. And coffee,” she explained.   
“I don't eat breakfast,” Pete replied grumpily and closed his eyes again, “What did you even make breakfast _from_?”  
“Scrambled eggs. Come one, eggs and coffee, perfect hangover breakfast. Give it a shot.”  
With a few more cheerful words she finally managed to coax Pete out of bed. He trudged into the kitchen and examined the food while trying his first sip of coffee.

“Are you feeling better?” Clara asked after a while, her voice uncertain. She needed to ask him if she could stay, but she had no idea how to approach the subject.  
Pete shrugged.   
“Listen,” she began, “Thank you for letting me stay.”  
“No problem. I can hardly use both the bed and the couch.”  
“That's good because I wanted to ask you if I could stay for a bit longer. I know it's an odd thing to ask of a complete stranger but I just got here yesterday and I don't know anyone. I have nothing. No apartment. No job. No money. No friends. I don't even have a change of clothes and. . .”  
He raised his hand in an attempt to make her stop talking.  
“Slow down, you're making my head swim. How did you even get here? And why didn't you think about all of that before . . . getting here?” Pete wrinkled his forehead and closed his eyes as if trying very hard to make sense of what she was telling him.  
Now it was story time. _Think of something_ , she told herself.  
“I'm from Blackpool and I ran away. I just couldn't stay and I can never go back. I hitch-hiked here and the few things I brought were stolen.”  
Clara watched Pete raise an eyebrow.   
“Give me one reason why I should let you stay?” He didn't buy her story. Well, it was hardly a story at all. But it seemed that he didn't care.  
“I can cook,” she almost shouted it at him, seeing a chance to convince him, “And I can clean. I swear I'll move out as soon as I found a job and can afford a place of my own.”  
“Can you do lamb?” he asked suddenly.  
“I'm sorry?”  
“Lamb. Can you cook lamb?”  
Clara frowned. She found it to be a rather unusual question. “Yeah, sure I can.”   
She couldn't really. At least she had never tried. But he didn't need to know that.   
“You can stay,” Pete concluded, “But this isn't a long term arrangement. You find a job, you move out. Got it?”  
She nodded. “Got it.”

Pete turned back to the counter, reaching for the plate of scrambled eggs Clara had prepared with shaking hands. He took a few bites while still standing. Clara started to feel a little uncomfortable watching him eat. She wasn't sure if she should sit down or take a plate herself.  
“What do you do for a living? Usually?” he asked.  
“I'm a teacher. At least I was.”  
“I work at the newspaper. I'll ask around if someone knows something about a vacancy.”  
“Thanks.”  
“You can go across the hall later. There's an older lady who recently fell out with her daughter. Maybe she still has some of her clothes lying around,” he mentioned it almost casually.   
“I will, thanks. And thank you for letting me stay. You won't regret it,” Clara promised him as he put down the plate, grabbed his coat and headed for the door.  
He turned around once more to grant her a sad smile.  
“But maybe you will,” he said, “I'll be back tonight.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

 

Clara finished the rest of the breakfast alone after Pete had left. She had sort of promised him that she would help around the household, which meant ridding this place of dust. Despite the cold winter air Clara opened the windows in the living room, the breeze scattering the stacked newspapers. She would never be able to fight the lingering smell of booze and tobacco completely but fresh air couldn't hurt. She proceeded to do the same to the bathroom and bedroom, deciding she would start with the latter. The room was small and scarcely furnished with a bed, a wardrobe and a bedside table. Clara found extra sheets and pillow cases in the lower shelf of the closet as well as a warmer looking blanket than the one she had slept under the previous night. She placed it neatly on the couch and threw Pete's used sheets into the hamper, hoping he'd appreciate a freshly made bed.  
Cleaning the living room wouldn't be as easy, especially since she had no idea what was important and what she could throw out, so she started with the easiest: cleaning the surfaces. She swept the dirt off the couch table, the kitchen counter, the desk and at last the book shelves. She found many classics, most of which she had read herself, but some of the titles meant nothing to her. Promising herself to read one of them later, Clara stepped closer to be able to read the author's name when suddenly her foot hit something. She bent down to find a box sitting on the lowest shelf. Clara felt an overwhelming curiosity all of a sudden and therefore opened it, finding inside a collection of old family photographs. The box also contained a bible and a college degree – in divinity. That was probably why they referred to him as _Dr_ Pete. The degree was framed but the glass had broken and never been repaired. Clara knew that he was now working for a newspaper, so she assumed that his PhD meant nothing to him, at least not anymore. It had been discarded along with his faith and his past in a dusty box on the lowest shelf.   
She took a moment to look at the photographs. The wedding picture made her stop. If he had a wife, then where was she? Clara made a mental note to ask him about it later.

After a few hours of cleaning the place looked a lot better than it had before. It still hadn't the level of cleanliness that Clara would have preferred but there was nothing more she could do about that at the time so she decided to take care of her own business for a moment and ask Pete's neighbour about the clothes.  
The old lady opened the door after only a few knocks, greeting Clara with a warm, but confused smiled.  
“Hello, I'm Clara Oswald,” she introduced herself, offering the woman her hand, “I'm currently staying next door, with Mr McIltchie.”  
She had learned his full name from the degree. The woman's features darkened a little.  
“Unfortunately my luggage was stolen on my way here and Pete told me you might have some clothes to spare. This dress,” Clara pointed down at herself, “is all I have at the moment.”  
The smiled returned to the old neighbour's face. “Of course, my dear, why don't you come inside for a moment?”  
Clara thanked the old lady and followed her inside, listening to her complaints about her good-for-nothing daughter, who apparently had run off with a punk musician to backpack across South America and the woman's fears she might end up in Cuba, joining the communists.   
“She is thirty years old, she should know better,” the neighbour complained.  
“I'm sure your daughter is well and that she'll return safely,” Clara had no idea what else to reply.   
Finally the woman approached with a big pile of clothes, handing it to Clara.  
“Thank you. I'll return them as soon as I get to do some shopping,” she promised, “Pete said he's going to help me find a job here. I'm a teacher.”  
“How well do you know him?” the woman raised an eyebrow.  
Clara looked around the room. Her accidental living arrangements must seem odd to a 60 year old woman in the 80s.   
“I don't, actually. I sort of stranded here with nothing and he took me in just yesterday. He seems nice.”  
The woman snorted and looked as if she was about to burst into laughter.  
“Do yourself a favour, my dear. Don't rely on him for help, that man can't even help himself.”  
“Why not? What's wrong with him?” Clara found herself asking.  
The old neighbour suddenly busied herself at the stove, obviously trying to avoid this subject at all cost, before turning back around to Clara. “Now, dear, would you like to stay for lunch? I prepared some soup.”

 

**OOO**

 

Clara walked around the apartment nervously, always one eye on the big clock hanging on the kitchen wall. She had no idea how long a shift at the newspaper usually was but 10 o'clock seemed a little late even for that. She had convinced the friendly neighbour to give her some of the soup to take home and it was waiting on the stove, ready to be heated up for dinner. There was only one thing missing: Pete.   
Suddenly Clara heard a noise outside, coming from the stairs. A thudding sound, followed by groans and cursing. She quickly hurried outside, looking for a light switch.  
“Where is the damn thing,” she muttered to herself while the moaning continued.  
“Pete? Is that you?” she called downstairs. No reply. “I can't find the light switch.”  
She thought she heard someone utter the words “door” and “left” so that was where she continued to look, and finally the corridor was plunged into light. Clara hurried down one flight of stairs to find Pete cowering on the floor.  
“Oh my God, Pete, what happened? Are you hurt?” she asked frantically but as she bent down to his level she could already smell the answer. He had been drinking again.  
“I fell,” he muttered under his breath, “Damn stairs.”  
Clara was about to turn around on her heels and head back inside, leaving Pete to try and figure out a way upstairs on his own in his drunken state but when she saw the pain on his face she felt a trace of pity for him inside her.   
“Let me help you,” Clara reached for his arm when he suddenly winced and jerked back. He had clearly hurt himself pretty badly.   
“Let's try the other, come on,” with a lot of effort Clara slowly pulled him up by his uninjured arm, trying very hard to keep him in a standing position for a moment as he threatened to fall back down again any second. She was too small to carry a man his size and she had no idea how they both eventually managed to stagger up the stairs and back inside the apartment. At least Clara thought she had figured out what the old neighbour had meant by her words earlier.   
When they had reached the bedroom Clara slowly let him sink unto the bed, trying very hard to stay clear of the hurting area.   
Pete was about to lie down and sleep but Clara didn't let him.  
“Wait, let me take a look at your arm, okay?” she looked at him but his gaze was unfocused, his eyes unable to keep from wandering across the room.   
Clara tried to help him out of his jacket as he sat rigid. He winced every now and then when she tucked at his arm ever so slightly.  
“You've cleaned,” Pete suddenly noticed.  
“Yes, like I promised you I would. Did you ask about a teaching job?” her voice sounded angrier than she had wanted it to be, probably because she was already expecting the answer.  
“No, I'm sorry. I forgot,” his speech was slurred and he was fighting to get the words out at all. Clara felt like she wanted to hit him for getting himself into this state.   
There was cry of pain that got stuck in his throat when she finally managed to pull off his jacket. Now that she could see his hands she noticed the wedding ring and remembered the photos she wanted to ask him about.   
“Can you, erm, can you unbutton your shirt? I wanna have a proper look at your arm,” Clara asked nervously.   
She watched as he began to fumble clumsily about the buttons without the success of actually opening one of them for a moment before she decided to step in.  
“Let me,” Clara rolled her eyes at him, hoping he wouldn't see it and opened the shirt just far enough to have a look at his shoulder.  
“Does that hurt?” she asked as she squeezed his upper arm.   
Pete shook his head.  
“Okay, how about this?” Clara tapped the collarbone lightly and Pete yanked his shoulder back, which only seemed to amount to more pain.   
“I'm sorry. Sorry,” she apologized quickly, “You should see a doctor about this.”  
“Yes, yes,” he drawled.  
“No,” Clara said sternly, “Promise me you'll see a doctor tomorrow. Your collarbone might be broken.”  
“Fine,” he replied finally, obviously realizing that agreeing was the only way out of this argument. 

Clara took a few steps back to look at his miserable figure and sighed. He probably needed her help a lot more than she needed his.  
“I've got soup on the stove. Do you want some?” she asked after a moment.  
Pete shook his head again.  
“Have you eaten?”  
“No,” he admitted.  
“Soup will be with you in a minute,” Clara said and hurried off to the kitchen. 

It took longer than she had expected to heat it up properly and she was almost afraid he would fall asleep in the meantime but when she came back to the bedroom he was still sitting on his bed, only now his head was resting against the wall.  
Clara set down on the bed next to him, her bowl in her right hand while handing him the other.   
“Thank you, Clara Oswald,” Pete smiled at her.  
Clara smiled back. She was actually surprised he still remembered her name.   
She wasn't the type to beat around the bush and she knew that now was probably the only time she might get an answer out of him.  
“Where is your wife?” she asked suddenly.  
Pete looked up from his soup, seeming surprised at first before his features turned sad again.  
“She left me,” he said simply, “A long time ago.”  
“I'm sorry,” Clara replied sincerely. She knew better than to press the subject any further and so she contented herself with eating by his side in silence.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

“Good morning, Clara.”  
She opened her eyes to see Pete standing above her, holding a cup of steaming coffee in her direction.   
“Good morning,” she mumbled, surprised that he was up before her. She hadn't even heard him while he made coffee, “How's your shoulder?”  
Clara sat up and watched him attempt a shrug, but could see that the mere thought of it pained him.  
“Very colourful. Nice shades of green and blue,” he replied with a weak smile.  
“I'm sure the doctor will give you something for the pain,” Clara said and took a careful sip from the cup.   
Pete shifted the weight of his body uncomfortably from one foot to the other which prompted Clara to raise an eyebrow at him.  
“You promised to have a doctor look at it. Remember?” she asked sternly.  
He sighed. “I know, I know. It's just. . . I hate doing to the doctor.”

Clara had more than just a vague idea why that was. From what she had witnessed of him so far she could tell that Pete was most definitely an alcoholic and going to the doctor meant answering a whole lot of questions about how much he drank and how often, how long this had been going on and a lecture about all the health risks his behaviour was causing him. Of course he would do anything to avoid it.  
“You promised,” Clara finally insisted.  
Pete took a large gulp of his own coffee, making Clara wonder if what was in his mug was really just coffee.  
“Alright,” he said after swallowing the rest of whatever it was that was in his cup, “I'll see the doctor. I'll just have to stop by work first.”  
“Good,” she replied, a little pleased with herself.   
“Could you do me a little favour though?”   
“Sure, what is it?”  
“Could you go to the grocery shop for me? I was going to do that today but, you know,” he pointed at his shoulder.  
“Oh, of course. Not a problem. I can make the lamb I promised you,” she dared to smile at him.  
“You don't have to,” Pete replied as he walked to the book shelf. He came back to Clara a few moments later, handing her the spare key to the flat.  
“But I want to. You're letting me stay. Cooking your favourite meal is the least I can do,” Clara said earnestly as she was given the key.   
“You'll find some money in the collection of Yeat's poems,” Pete explained as he headed for the door, “I'll be back around noon. Oh, and if you get too bored, there's a record player in one of the boxes on the lowest shelf. Sorry, I don't have a telly anymore.”  
“It's okay, I don't watch a lot of TV anyway. But thanks.”

When he was gone Clara quickly finished her coffee and indeed found money where Pete said it would be. She changed into some warmer clothes and put on the only coat the neighbour had given her. Pocketing the money and the key Clara left the flat when it suddenly dawned on her that she didn't even know where the grocery shop was.   
With only one person she could ask Clara headed for the neighbour's door and knocked. The old lady opened the door a few seconds later.  
“Oh, it's you,” the woman smiled at her, “I see the clothes fit perfectly.”  
“Yes, they do. Thanks again. That was really nice of you,” Clara replied.   
“But you didn't come here to say thanks again, did you?”  
“No, actually, could you tell me where I can find the next grocery store? And a butcher's shop?” That was something she had read about in history books. In her own time there was just one big supermarket for everything.  
“Of course. When you leave the building you just turn left and follow the street for 10 minutes. Ah, what am I saying, you're young, you can make it in 5. But there's the grocery store and the butcher's shop is just across the street,” the lady explained.  
“Okay, thank you so much,” Clara replied, smiling gratefully.  
“Anything else?”  
“Actually, do you have a good recipe for lamb?”  
“Lamb? Have you ever made lamb before, dear?”   
“Not exactly,” Clara replied uncertainly, “But I'm not too bad around the oven. I'm sure I can make it.”  
“Why don't you start with something easier instead?”  
“Because I promised,” she admitted reluctantly, “When Pete took me in he asked if I could make lamb and I said yes.”  
The old woman put her arms akimbo and watched Clara closely. “Why are you so dead set on impressing that dirty, old drunk? The state he's usually in when he clomps in late at night he won't even know it's not lamb you're giving him.”  
“I promised,” Clara insisted and had suddenly regained her posture, “And Pete has been kind to me. I would be sleeping on the streets if it wasn't for him. I just want to repay that kindness.”  
The woman's features softened a little.   
“Well, your heart is definitely in the right place, dear. Just don't go around wasting that kindness on people who don't deserve it.”  
“He deserves it, I think,” Clara replied.  
“Alright, I will give you a list with all the ingredients and when you're back from the shop you'll bring them over and I will teach you how to make lamb.”  
A big smile formed on Clara's lips. “Thank you so much. I'll be back in no time!”

When Clara walked out of the door with the shopping list she made a mental note to buy some flowers for the old neighbour. And also some to brighten up Pete's living room.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Clara took a step back to regard the table she had just set beautifully with the best plates she had been able to find and a bouquet of fresh flowers. His place probably hadn't looked this nice and homely in years.  
With the help of the lovely neighbour Clara had finished the lamb even before noon and now she was only waiting for Pete to return. With no idea what else do to she started looking for the old record player he had mentioned earlier and found it but as soon as she had unpacked it and finished the set up Clara realized that she had no idea how to operate it. It was just another thing that had vanished in those almost 100 years that were lying between 1982 and her own time.   
Clara plucked the record player into the socket and placed one of the vinyl records where she thought it belonged but when she flicked the “on” switch no sound came from it despite the record turning.   
“You need to lower the needle.”  
Clara almost jumped around at his words, finding Pete standing next to the door. She had been so lost in her task to make the record player work that she hadn't even heard him enter. She noticed that he now had his arm in a sling but otherwise seemed fine and for once even sober.   
“Here, let me show you,” Pete continued and approached the record player, pressing down what looked like a little arm to touch the vinyl. Old fashioned jazz music started playing immediately.   
“Nice,” Clara commented with a smile towards the player.  
“Give me your hand,” Pete said as he offered her his uninjured left hand.  
Clara frowned slightly but eventually took it and Pete twirled her around carefully, avoiding to move the area around his right shoulder. Yet when Clara turned back towards him she saw him grimace in pain.  
“Uh, bad idea,” she muttered, “Sorry.”  
“Well, guess the pain killer only works if I keep still,” Pete replied, his hand wandering to his hurt shoulder, “Let's save the dancing for later.”  
“So your shoulder is fine?” Clara asked.  
“Yeah, just a nasty bruise. I have to go back tomorrow for another check up but it's gonna be fine.”

Clara watched Pete approached the neatly set table and only now remembered the lamb that was still in the oven where she had put it to keep it warm.  
“I made lunch. Lamb. Like you wanted,” she mentioned almost casually.  
“You really didn't have to.” He stared at his feet as if ashamed.   
“Shall we eat then?” Clara asked. She really didn't want to go back to discussing that she didn't _have_ to cook.

Pete hesitated for a moment as if he was still considering his next words and Clara was almost afraid he'd decline the meal.  
“Clara, before we eat I really have to apologize,” he said finally.  
“What for?”  
“I've behaved dreadfully towards you. I don't care how you really ended up here in Glasgow but whatever happened, you're in trouble and yet here you are, cleaning, cooking for me, a complete stranger,” Pete turned to look directly at her, “You've been taking care of me and I repaid you poorly. I've been living alone for so long that I forgot my manners. What happened last night won't happen again, I promise.”  
Clara was taken by surprise by his words. She hadn't really expected an apology.   
“You don't have to apologize. Without you I probably would have frozen to death two nights ago. You've been so kind to me and the cleaning and cooking is just so I don't feel too much like I'm invading your life,” Clara replied earnestly.   
“You are not an invasion. From now on you are a guest and I will treat you with the respect you deserve.”  
“Alright,” Clara agreed finally, “Now, let's eat before the lamb has completely dried out.”

Pete grabbed two beers from the fridge while Clara prepared the food and spread it on both plates.  
“Oh, just water for me,” Clara said as she saw him approach with two bottles.  
“Okay.”  
When he turned to the table she was just finishing the lamb by adding rosemary.  
“My wife used to make lamb every other Sunday, always adding rosemary that she grew in our garden. We had such a beautiful little house back then,” Pete said with a sad smile. Clara wasn't sure if he was talking to her or to himself.  
“Do you miss her?” she asked.  
He remained silent for quite a long time, obviously considering his answer.  
“It's been 10 years. I think what I miss most is company.”

 

Pete thanked her several times as they ate, always stressing how good the lamb tasted and how well she had prepared it and Clara almost confessed to having had help just to get out of getting even more compliments.   
“I've told some of my colleagues to keep their eyes out on a teaching job this morning,” he said casually after shoving his empty plate to the centre of the table.  
“And what did they say?”  
“That they'll keep an eye out. Sorry, that was all I could do for now. But they're all newspaper people, always the first to hear things,” he added.   
“That's good. Thank you,” Clara smiled.   
“Okay, I'm going to do the dishes and then take a bath,” Pete rose from his chair, making his way to the sink.  
“I can do the dishes,” she protested, “I made the mess so I should clean it up.”  
“No, you cooked, so it's my turn to clean.”  
“You have to rest your shoulder,” Clara argued, using her special _teacher voice_ , “Go take that bath. I'll take care of the dishes.”  
It worked, the _teacher voice_ always worked. Pete stepped back from the sink.

 

When Clara had finished putting away the dishes she considered what to do next. She didn't really want to listen to more music in case Pete felt disturbed by the noise next door so she decided to read one of the many books from the shelf. She grabbed a collection of poems by Pablo Neruda when she suddenly heard Pete's voice.  
“Clara, could you help me for a moment?” he asked.  
She approached the bathroom door carefully.  
“Uhm, is something wrong?” She was a little reluctant to enter.  
“I just need a quick hand. Or two hands. Which is essentially the problem.”  
Clara frowned. “Okay. Wait. You are dressed, right? I'm not coming in if you're not dressed.”  
She thought she heard him chuckle on the other side of the door.  
“Yes, I am dressed.”

That was all she really needed to hear. When Clara entered the bathroom she found him at least wearing his trousers. Other than that he was shirtless and Clara could see the dark bruise on his shoulder but when she looked at his face she saw it was covered in shaving cream and he was holding his shaving knife rather helplessly in his left hand.  
“I can't lift my hand all the way up,” he explained, “Could you help me?”  
“With _that_?” Clara pointed at the knife.   
“Yes.”  
“No. I mean. Not that I wouldn't. It's just – it's a knife.”  
“I've never grown fond of these safety razors to be honest,” he explained, “But it's not that complicated. I can show you.”  
“Or I could run to the store and get you a razor,” Clara suggested, sounding a bit more like a frightened kid than she had wanted to.  
“Razor's are rubbish. It's really not that big a deal.”  
“It is when I accidentally cut your throat and have to dispose of your corpse.”  
Pete laughed. “You're not going to accidentally cut my throat. Now, please, before the shaving cream dries.”  
“Maybe not but I could still cut you pretty badly,” Clara said, approaching him carefully.  
“I'll live,” Pete smiled at her “You just start with a few short stroke and end with a long one. Hold the knife at this angle.  
He demonstrated the technique on his arm without actually touching it with the knife.   
“Are you sure you don't want me to just buy a razor?” Clara asked one last time as he handed her the knife.  
“Trust me. It's going to be okay,” he promised.  
“Yeah, cause I'm not the one with the slit throat.”

Pete chuckled again but when Clara bent down he sat completely still. She gently touched his face, smoothing he skin she was about to shave and brought the knife down. The first few strokes went without bloodshed and Clara took a deep breath.   
“You're doing great,” Pete mumbled, followed by a tiny hiss when she indeed cut him.  
“Oh, I'm sorry. Don't compliment me, please. That's not helping. Sorry.”  
“Okay, you're doing a very lousy job, Clara Oswald.”  
“Shut up,” she demanded and set the knife down again, gently scraping over the surface of the skin.

When she was done he had no less than seven tiny cuts and her hands were trembling. Clara hoped his shoulder would heal quickly and she would never be forced to do this every again.   
“Not so bad for a first try,” he commented as he observed his reflection in the mirror, “I did a lot worse when I first started shaving.”  
“I would love to say this was fun but,” Clara let out a deep, audible breath, “it really wasn't. Don't ever make me do that again. I could've cut you a lot worse than I did.”  
“Well, in that case, thank you for not cutting my throat,” Pete turned back around and only now Clara became again aware of the fact that he wasn't wearing a shirt.   
He was so tall and skinny that Clara wondered if he had even had one decent meal since his wife left him. Probably not, judging by the state of his fridge before she had filled it with supplies this morning.   
“It's gruesome, isn't it?” Pete suddenly asked.   
Clara eyes shot back up to his face. It took her a moment to realize what he was talking about.  
“Oh, no, no, it's not too bad,” Clara reached out to touch his bruise gently, “It'll heal in no time.”  
“Let's hope so,” Pete said, grabbed his shirt and headed out of the bathroom.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

Clara was waiting for Pete. Again. Sometimes she even forgot she was so far away from her own time, but during these moments of waiting while having nothing do to it all came back to her. That's when she thought the 80s to be utterly boring.   
She loved reading and had managed to devour an entire book ever since Pete left for the doctor's office but her eyes had grown tired and she was looking around for something to occupy herself with. Although she had never watched a lot of TV she was now starting to miss it simply for the reason that there had always been the option of watching it. And there had been computers and laptops and smartphones. The phone in Pete's flat had a dial plate and Clara hoped she would never be asked to call somebody because she had absolutely no clue how to operate such a device. Some time around noon Clara had decided to pay her friendly neighbour a visit for a nice little chat but even after she came back Pete was still missing.

She told herself not to worry. It was a Thursday and the doctor's office was probably filled with people attempting to get themselves an early weekend. He had promised her, right? Well, Clara wasn't even sure what exactly it was that he had promised her. That he wouldn't come home drunk anymore? That he wouldn't come home so drunk that he couldn't make it up the stairs? 

When the clock struck 9 however Clara was certain that Pete wasn't still at the doctor's office. Determined to bring him home she grabbed her coat and made her way to the pub in front of which they had first met. A wall of smoke and the smell of stale liquor met her when she opened the pub door and almost brought tears to her eyes. She spotted Pete sitting in a corner, a glass of scotch in his hand and talking to a young woman who seemed very interested in what he had to say to her. Clara approached them carefully, ignoring a few whistles that were most likely meant for her.   
“Oh,” Pete uttered when he saw her towering over their table, “I'm sorry, Clara. I meant to come home earlier. Paddy here had a few questions about some of my old articles.”  
The young woman turned around to face Clara with an apologetic smile.

Clara was now becoming more and more aware of the voices of the men around here. And also the things they said.  
“Who's this, Pete? Your daughter?” one of the old drunks sniggered.   
“Nah, I bet it's his mistress!” another shouted.  
“Is that true, Pete? You fucking the young lassie?”  
Pete sat down his glass and started rising from his seat. Clara wasn't exactly sure what he was going to do but she wouldn't let this turn into a fight and so she turned around to have a good, long look at the other men.  
“Well, Pete is definitely the best choice around here,” she said with a shrug. Some of the men chuckled, a couple of young ones looked hurt and when she turned back around Clara saw that Paddy was smiling. Pete looked as if he wished he was somewhere else.   
“Let's go home,” he said simply and lead Clara out of the pub.   
“You should've just ignored them. They're always vile,” Pete commented.  
“Well, at least they saw you going home with a pretty girl. I bet they were jealous.”  
When he didn't reply Clara went on talking as they made their way back home. “I'm sorry I came looking for you in the pub. And for interrupting you. I was worried when you didn't come home.”

Pete only nodded and in reply and Clara gave up trying to make conversation. He wasn't as drunk as the other nights but there was something weighing heavy on his heart. She wanted to ask about it but her chances of an answer were slim and she knew it so they just walked home quietly.   
“Do you want me to make something for dinner?” Clara asked as she helped him out of his coat. His arm was still hurting.   
“No, thank you,” he sighed, “I just want to go to bed.”   
Clara watched him trudge off towards the bedroom.  
“Pete,” she called to make him turn around, “is everything alright?”  
He looked at her for a while, inhaling deeply several times but never saying anything.  
“Pete?”   
“I'm dying,” he replied with a simple shrug and then turned around to sink down onto his bed.   
Clara felt as if someone had just hit her over the head. Pete couldn't be dying. He had only hurt his shoulder. He didn't die because of a bruise.  
She followed Pete into the bedroom and sat down next to him.   
“What are you talking about?” she asked him.  
“I got the test results today. It's liver cancer,” he explained in a low voice.  
Her head was immediately flooded with every information she had ever heard about cancer, the treatment, the chances. But this wasn't 2078. It was the 20th century. Clara had no idea about the medical knowledge in the 80s.  
“Can't they operate?” Clara asked desperately. She reached out and placed her hand softly on his shoulder.   
Pete turned to face her and gently took her hand into his.  
“You're very kind, but you don't have to pretend to care, Clara.”  
“I'm not pretending anything,” she replied angrily, “Now tell me, can they operate?”  
Pete shook his head. “It's too late for that. They've given me a few months. If I'm _lucky_.”

He turned away from her and Clara felt him squeeze her hand a little tighter. It took her a moment to realize that he was crying. She wrapped her arms around him, careful not to touch his hurting shoulder and let him weep silently.   
She didn't know how long they remained in the embrace but after a while he finally found his voice again and let go of her.   
“I wanted to die for so long,” Pete said silently, “And now that I am I don't want to die anymore.”  
“I'm gonna stay with you,” Clara suddenly heard herself say.   
“What?” he turned to look at her.  
“I'm gonna stay with you until the end,” she promised and reassured him with a sincere smile.   
“You don't have to.”  
“I want to,” Clara insisted and pressed a swift kiss to his temple, “You should try to sleep. It's been a long day.”  
Pete nodded and went to adjust the pillows to a comfortable heap. When Clara tried to get up however, he grabbed and held her hand.  
“Could you stay? Just for tonight?” he asked, sounding insecure all of a sudden.  
Clara let her gaze wander over the big double bed that certainly had enough room for two. And if she was honest with herself it did look a lot more comfortable than the couch she had been sleeping on.   
“Sorry, forget that I asked. I shouldn't h-”  
“No, no,” Clara intervened, “I'll stay.”  
“Thank you,” Pete said kindly, “If I snore, feel free to kick me.”  
She chuckled. “Deal.”  
Clara settled down next to Pete who fell asleep almost immediately after turning off the lights. She watched his shadowy figure for a while and for the first time became aware of the fondness she was feeling for him. Pete was a kind man who had been through a lot during his life. He didn't deserve what was happening to him, and he certainly didn't deserve to die alone. He had been there for her when she was in need of help and he had never even asked why. Now all Clara wanted to do was be there for him when he truly needed someone.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem/song mentioned at the end of the chapter is called "Father Death Blues" by Allen Ginsberg. There is a beautiful version of it on YouTube and I can only recommend you listen to it as you read this part of the chapter. It really supports the mood of the scene.

**Chapter 7**

For the first time since Clara had landed in 80s of the 20th century she woke up feeling truly rested. She pulled the duvet closer to her chin and adjusted the position of her head to make herself more comfortable. When she opened her eyes she was a little surprised to find Pete already awake – and looking at her.   
“Good morning,” he said softly and with one of his sad smiles.  
Clara raised an eyebrow. “Morning,” she replied, her voice still sounding sleepy, but no less suspicious, “Have you been watching me?”  
Pete cleared his throat and tried to find any other spot in the room to look at, but obviously he realized it made him seem all the more guilty so he looked right back into her eyes.  
“Sorry, I didn't mean to seem creepy. I was considering waking you to ask if you wanted breakfast but you seemed so peaceful. Sorry.”  
“Don't worry,” she reassured him before adding carefully, “I didn't think it was creepy.”

Clara didn't feel like breakfast just yet, mostly because she dreaded leaving the comfort of this bed.   
“How are you feeling?” she asked as she shifted her hand to support her head.  
Pete gave a shrug. “Better, I suppose. Thank you.”  
“For what?”  
“Everything. But most for staying. Just know that if you decide to leave before I. . .,” he paused, apparently unable to say the words, “I won't hold it against you. You're a beautiful, young woman with your whole life ahead of you. You don't have to babysit a dying man just because you feel obligated.”  
Clara felt the tiniest twinge in her stomach and hoped she wouldn't blush. He had called her beautiful. He had been looking at her and Clara didn't know why the thought of it somehow unsettled her.

She reached out and gently touched his hand. Looking into his eyes, she said: “Can I stay because I like you?”  
Pete snorted. “Like me? You don't even know me.”  
“You let a stranger stay with you for now other reason but that she asked. You helped out that girl in the pub with your old articles despite the horrible news you had just gotten. You think of others before you think of yourself, you're kind and that's all I need to know about you to like you. Also you've got a great taste in books as far as I can tell.”  
They both chuckled at her last comment.   
“Although I did spot some authors I have never heard of.”  
“Really? Which ones?” his eyes widened with curiosity.   
“Neruda. I had a look at him yesterday. Those are some truly beautiful poems.”  
“True. Very true,” Pete sighed and turned to lie on his back and only know that he was letting go of it, Clara realized she had still been holding his hand, “There was a time when I wanted to be a writer. A real writer, not just articles for a newspaper.”   
Clara wasn't surprised. He seemed the type. In fact, he seemed like she had always imagined a writer to be.  
“Why didn't you?” she wanted to know.  
“There was always something else. I got a doctorate in divinity because it was my father's wish. Then I became a journalist to support my wife. And after she left I didn't have a reason to do anything anymore,” Pete explained sadly.  
“It's not too late, you know?”  
He let out the tiniest laugh. “It kinda is now, isn't it?”  
“No, it's not,” Clara protested determinedly, “You can still write.”  
“Clara, the doctors said I have only months,” he turned backed around to face her, looking serious now as if he demanded the same seriousness from her.  
“That is plenty of time to write. You don't have to go back to the newspaper. You shouldn't waste your time on something that you hate.”  
Pete raised his eyebrows. “How do you know I hate it?”  
“I. . .,” Clara stammered. She didn't really know. He had never said it, “I just know.”  
“Then you're not only pretty but also very smart. You're right. I hate it.”  
“Then listen to me. Stay home, write. If you're not doing it for yourself, do it for me,” she suggested.  
“For you?”  
“Yeah, I would love to read it. I bet you're great with words.”  
Pete said nothing for a while but continued to look at her. Clara grew more nervous under his gaze with every passing second. He was sober now and his thoughts clear and despite their conversation Clara knew that inside his mind there was a whole world of thoughts that he held back, that he didn't share with her and all of a sudden she truly wanted to get to know this world.  
“Pete?” she asked carefully when she couldn't bear either the silence or his looks anymore.  
“Well, I'll better make breakfast and get to work, right?”  
“So, you're doing it? You're going to write?”  
“Only if you'll be my muse,” he said calmly and shifted forward.   
Clara thought for a small moment that he was going to lean in and kiss her but instead he just rolled around to avoid using his hurt shoulder and pushed himself off the bed.   
“You can stay in bed a little longer if you like. I'll take care of breakfast,” he said as he walked out of the bedroom.  
Clara's head fell back into the pillows and she exhaled sharply. Somehow she was starting to feel something for this man that she had never expected to feel. What was it? When had it started? How? Clara couldn't tell and she didn't feel like thinking about it. Thinking and pondering and evaluating only made it more real.

 

**OOO**

 

The day progressed slowly and quietly. After breakfast Pete settled at his desk in front of an old typewriter, the kind Clara had so far only seen on pictures in history books, but from the looks of it it didn't work too differently from modern keyboards. As he rapidly typed away on the keys and only paused to have a cigarette or sip from his slightly Irish coffee Clara finished the dishes, took a bath and inspected the bookshelf for something new to read.  
“Hey, can I ask your opinion?” Pete interrupted her train of thoughts, “It's a question of names.”  
“Sure.”  
“What should I call the protagonists daughter?”  
“What about Clara?” she suggested with a smile.   
“No, can't.”  
“Why not?”  
“That name is reserved for a different character,” he replied hesitantly.  
Clara turned around, now really curious. “What kind of character?”  
“Can't tell you yet. But I really need a name for the daughter.”  
“Ellie.”  
“Ellie is nice. That could work,” Pete said and turned back to the typewriter to continue his work.   
During the rest of the day he continued to ask her small things about names or places but whenever Clara asked about the character who was going to bear her name he would look away and pretend he hadn't heard the question. She asked Pete if he would like to join her on a walk and get some fresh air but he insisted he wanted to finish this chapter and Clara went alone. 

It was already dark when she returned to the flat and only now did she realized she had been gone for over two hours. The smell of dinner got caught in her nose when she entered and she spotted him sitting on the sofa, a glass of scotch before him and a book in his hands.   
“There you are. I was starting to get worried,” Pete said when she came in, “I made dinner a while ago. Well, I tried making dinner. Maybe it's still warm.”  
Clara approached the oven and saw he had made fried potatoes. That was probably all he knew how to do but she was hungry and hunger made her less picky. She grabbed a plate and settled on the sofa next to him.  
“So, did you finish the chapter?” she asked with her mouth full.  
“Yes,” he replied with a smile, not looking up from the book he was reading.  
“And are you going to tell me who your book Clara is?”   
“No.”  
“Why not?”  
“Because you will disapprove and judge me and demand I change it. So no,” he said, turning the page.   
“Damn,” Clara uttered and continued to eat her meal. 

When she was finished she put the plate down on the small coffee table and rested her head against the backrest of the sofa.   
“What are you reading?” she wanted to know.  
“Allen Ginsberg, poet of the Beat Generation,” Pete explained as if he already knew she had never heard of him.  
“What's the Beat Generation?”  
“A small group of American poets. Ginsberg, Kerouac.”  
“Do you want to read them to me?” Clara asked.   
“Sure.”

Pete read her a few of the poems and Clara only understood half of it. That one piece called “Howl” was extremely long and extremely confusing, and even a tiny bit inappropriate – at least for the 50s.   
“Do you like it?” Pete asked after he had finished.  
“I'm not sure,” Clara wrinkled her nose and bent over him to take a look at the lines. “ _Who let themselves be fucked in the ass by saintly motorcyclists_? _Vision of ultimate cunt_?”  
Pete laughed. “Well, that's how he wrote. But it was the 50s and they sued his publisher for it.”  
“I wonder why,” Clara said, her voice loaded with sarcasm as she let herself fall back against the sofa, “Read me another. But pick a poem less vile please.”  
“Alright,” Pete agreed and opened a random page in the book, “Oh, this one's a song.”  
“Sing it, then.”  
“I can't,” he protested weakly.   
“Do it or I'll torture you with my very bad version of _Loch Lomond_ ,” Clara threatened him jokingly.   
“Oh no, there will be no defiling of Scottish traditionals in my home. But brace yourself. This is a sad one.”

Clara moved around on the sofa until she had found a comfortable position and turned towards Pete, waiting for him to start singing. He took a sip of his scotch before he adjusted his glasses and cleared his throat. 

 

_Hey Father Death, I'm flying home_  
Hey poor man, you're all alone  
Hey old daddy, I know where I'm going 

_Father Death, Don't cry any more_  
Mama's there, underneath the floor  
Brother Death, please mind the store 

 

His voice was low and raspy but nonetheless beautiful and Clara found herself utterly lost in the song. He was right, it was sad indeed, but nothing compared to the soul shattering sadness that was in his voice. So full of sorrow and regrets and the fear of the end. 

 

_Old Aunty Death Don't hide your bones_  
Old Uncle Death I hear your groans  
O Sister Death how sweet your moans 

_O Children Deaths go breathe your breaths_  
Sobbing breasts'll ease your Deaths  
Pain is gone, tears take the rest 

 

Clara was trying to hold back her tears but looking at Pete she knew she was going to lose the fight. He was crying already, silently, his voice quivering only slightly, but growing weaker with every verse. She found herself reaching out and taking his hand.   
Pete stopped to look at her.  
“Please, don't stop. It's beautiful,” it came out no more than a whisper.  
He nodded gently and turned his attention back to the book he was holding, but never let go of her hand.

 

_Genius Death your art is done_  
Lover Death your body's gone  
Father Death I'm coming home 

_Guru Death your words are true_  
Teacher Death I do thank you  
For inspiring me to sing this Blues 

_Buddha Death, I wake with you_  
Dharma Death, your mind is new  
Sangha Death, we'll work it through 

_Suffering is what was born_  
Ignorance made me forlorn  
Tearful truths I cannot scorn 

_Father Breath once more farewell_  
Birth you gave was no thing ill  
My heart is still, as time will tell. 

 

Pete closed the book and dropped it on the coffee table. Clara saw him stop and consider to grab his glass but instead he fell back down against the backrest and withdrew his hand to cover his face.   
Clara didn't know what do to. She herself was in tears and had no idea how to comfort a dying man. Taking a deep breath she wiped away her tears.  
“Pete,” she said softly, but there was no reaction from him. He leaned forward, but his face remained buried in his hands.   
Clara carefully inched closer and raised her hands to his, slowly and carefully removing them from his face. She cupped his cheeks to force him to look at her and gently stroked that spot on his chin where she had cut him while shaving.   
Clara had never look at him from up close. She knew he had blueish eyes, but she couldn't make out any kind of colour in this light. They might as well have been black. His hair was wild, a wonderful, grey mess that felt soft under her touch when she ran her fingers through it.  
“Clara,” she could hear him swallow, “What are you doing?”  
“Shhh,” she hushed him as her thumb caressed the lines on his face, “Don't speak.”  
“But. . .” before Pete had the chance to reply and talk her out of it Clara leaned closer and brushed her lips against his.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

Pete gently pulled away from the kiss and leaned his forehead against hers. His hands had wandered up to rest upon her hips. He sighed quietly.  
“Clara, why are you doing this?” he asked desperately.  
“I,” she hesitated. It was a good question and she didn't really know the answer to it, “I just wanted to kiss you.”  
“Why?”   
One of his hands left her hips and reached under her hair. Clara knew instinctively that a part of him wanted to let go, and another wanted desperately to hold on.  
“I just wanted to, I had no reason,” she whispered and realized she wanted to do it again.   
This time it was Pete who initiated the kiss. He touched her lips gently at first and when Clara opened her mouth to let him in his tongue grazed hers playfully, longingly, like a man who had been starved of affection for years. He wrapped his arms around Clara, pulling her closer and she felt the comforting warmth of his body against her own.   
She knew right then and there that a kiss wouldn't do. She wanted to feel his skin on hers, discover his body as he discovered hers, become one with him.   
Kissing him back more fiercely now she tried to move and climb unto his lap when suddenly he stopped and sought to distance himself from her. Not knowing what it was that she had done wrong Clara looked at him in confusion.  
“I'm sorry, Clara,” Pete uttered, looking down at his feet, “I shouldn't. _We_ shouldn't.”  
“Do you not want to?” she asked, still uncertain as to why he had suddenly pulled away.  
“I want to,” he assured her and again he gave her that sad smile she had come to know so well within the past few days, “But I'm not what you want. Not really.”  
“How can _you_ know what _I_ want?” Clara demanded, slightly angry now. If this was going to turn into a speech about how he didn't deserve her, she would have to fight very hard not to slap him.   
“Because I'm old, I'm sick and pathetic,” he replied and his voice sounded as if he wished he weren't, “I can't give you want you want. And certainly not what you deserve.”  
“That's not for you to decide,” she said determinedly.

Clara waited for Pete to respond but he never did. After a long time of staring off into space, he finally said: “You can have the bed if you like. I'll take the sofa.”  
“No.”  
“Clara, I don't want you ruining your back on this old thing. My back is already ruined. I don't mind.”  
“No, either I'll sleep on the couch or you let me have the other half of your bed. Like last night,” Clara decided.   
Pete turned to look at her. “I don't think that's a good idea.”  
“No? You seemed to have slept well last night. And so did I.”  
“Well, if you absolutely insist,” he shrugged, but Clara could see that he was still uncomfortable with the idea, “How can I refuse a pretty, young lady?”  
“You can't,” she said with a smile and got up to head for the bedroom.

 

OOO

 

When Clara woke up the next morning Pete's side of the bed was empty. For a moment she wondered whether he had slept on the couch anyway but the sheets were crinkled and she could hear the faint rattling of the typewriter coming from the next room. Apparently he was already up and working.   
“Good morning,” she greeted him with a yawn and started approaching his desk.  
“Ah, you're up. I just made another pot of coffee. It should still be warm,” Pete replied without looking up from his work.  
Clara smiled to herself. Despite the news of his cancer he kept going and she loved seeing him so happy with his work. It seemed as if the ideas had piled up inside him over the years and he had only needed a reason to actually started doing something with them.  
When she drew closer she spotted a rather big pile of papers.  
“Is that what you've already written?” she asked, astounded, and reached out to grab them but Pete's hand was faster, blocking her from taking the papers.  
“You can't read that, not yet,” he explained.   
“Why not?”  
“Because I haven't finished. Never share a half finished work.”  
“That's a dumb rule,” Clara said and made sure he could hear the disappointment in her voice, “Will you at least tell me who book Clara is?”  
“Also no.”  
“I'd ask why not but I don't think I'll like the answer.”  
“Because book Clara is my dirty little secret,” Pete replied with a chuckle, “No, seriously. I don't talk about my work in progress. Now go get your coffee before it gets cold!”  
“Mh, alright,” Clara muttered grumpily and made her way to the kitchen.

 

Clara busied herself with some more cleaning and dusting and Pete had allowed her to get rid of some of the old newspapers. Not long and the place would actually start looking like a home. When Pete decided it was time for a break Clara was just sorting out the boxes on the lowest shelves.   
“Please tell me those glasses your wore as a teenager were a fashion back then,” she commented while looking through the box containing his old photographs.  
“Oh no, put that box back, please. It's embarrassing,” he complained and looked at her pleadingly.  
But Clara had no intention of putting back anything.   
“This one here looks handsome,” Clara held up a picture of his younger self wearing a three piece suit.   
“That was taken on my graduation day. I thought the suit was a bit. . . much,” Pete explained.  
“I like it,” Clara replied with a smile.  
When Pete reached into the box Clara noticed that the wedding ring was missing from his hand. She opened her mouth to ask him about it but then thought better of it.   
“Ah, the last picture taken with my father,” Pete said as he drew another picture from the box, “You'd never guess we fought bitterly on that day by the looks of this photograph.”  
“What did you fight over?”  
Pete shrugged. “Religion. He was a stubborn old man.”  
“He looks nice,” Clara commented as she looked at the picture.  
“Well, so do I.”  
“You _are_ nice.”   
Pete didn't reply. Instead he turned back to his desk and started typing. Clara knew better than to try and talk to him now and so she decided to continue with her cleaning.

 

“I'm going to do the laundry. Do you have anything dark you'd like me to throw into the washer?” she asked.  
“No, no, I'm good,” he replied absent-mindedly.  
Clara doubted he had really heard her but she didn't want to interrupt his flow. She gathered some of the dark clothes the neighbour had lent her and carried them off into the bathroom, only half filling the machine. Clara looked down at herself and realized she might as well wash the clothes she was wearing, too. Her eyes scanned the bathroom and spotted a bathrobe hanging next to the door. Perfect, she wouldn't need to walk back into the living room stark naked.  
She quickly stripped out of her clothes and threw them into the washer as well. Just when Clara had closed the lid and switched on the machine the bathroom door opened and Pete walked in.  
“Clara, can I ask y-,” he stopped dead in his tracks when he spotted her standing completely naked in the middle of the bathroom.  
She thought he would react immediately and storm out of the room but he didn't seem quite capable of tearing his gaze from her. Clara decided to do the sensible thing and reached for the bathrobe to cover her body.  
“Sorry,” she apologized with a shy laugh after she had wrapped herself in the white cotton, “Decided to wash all the clothes at once. You wanted to ask me something?”  
Pete finally managed to close his mouth. He swallowed hard.  
“I, uhm, I'm sorry,” he spluttered, yet his eyes were still fixed on her, “I, . . .”  
“Was it something about the book?” Clara raised her eyebrows as she stepped closer, “Was that what you wanted to ask?”  
She had to refrain from laughing. Never in her life had she thought that the sight of her naked body would baffle him so much.   
“Pete?” she asked again when he didn't reply.  
“I, er, I'm sorry. I should go,” he said but as he turned around Clara caught his wrist and he was forced to stay and look back at her. She looked at him and smiled. Seeing him so flustered and insecure made him seem all the more lovable.  
“Last night. . .,” she started but Pete interrupted her.  
“Don't.”  
No, he wasn't going to talk her out of it with excuses of how he didn't deserve her.  
“Last night,” Clara continued determinedly, “You said you wanted to.”  
“Doesn't make it right,” he countered.  
“Doesn't make it wrong either.”  
Clara held his wrist tighter and pulled him closer which wasn't too hard in his befuddled state. She took his other hand as well and placed them both on her hips before letting her hands wander to his chest.   
“Please, let me make my own decisions. And for God's sake kiss me,” she demanded. 

Pete finally stopped arguing. He bent down to touch her lips, a little more confident than he had done the night before. Clara's tongue brushed his and he tasted faintly of coffee and scotch. Her hands wandered under his shirt, feeling every muscle move under his skin and letting her nails scrape just as little, but enough to leave a few marks.   
With all the force she could muster she pushed him out of the bathroom, his back landing against the first wall they encountered in the living room.   
A small moan escaped her mouth as Pete's lips left hers and continued down her neck, caressing every inch of sensitive skin. Her hand slid across the fabric of his trousers and squeezed. When he didn't react she slipped it past his belt into his pants and found his cock.  
“Clara,” Pete uttered but she ignored him.  
She began to massage him but soon realized it wasn't working. Obviously Pete had come to the same conclusion and had stopped kissing her.  
“Clara, it's no use,” he said, his voice low.  
“Don't worry,” Clara smiled at him, “We'll get there.”  
She was about to get on her knees but Pete grabbed her arms to stop her.   
“What's wrong?” she asked, sounding a little more worried than she had intended to. Clara feared that he might have changed his mind again, so she was determined to change it back. Again she reached for his crotch but only earned a pitying look. Whether it was meant for her or for himself Clara couldn't tell.  
“I can't,” Pete said, the defeat audible in his voice, “I'm sorry. It's not working.”  
“Oh,” Clara uttered, removing her hand carefully, “It's okay. We can try again. Later.”  
“No, it's not okay,” he replied, straightening his clothes and turning away from her.  
“It _is_ okay, Pete. It happens.”  
Pete took a deep breath and ran his hands through his hair.   
“Don't worry about it,” Clara tried to comfort him, but that clearly wasn't working either.  
Pete grabbed his coat and walked towards the door.  
“I need some fresh air,” was all he said before the door closed behind him.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

 

Clara fought the urge to bang her head against a really hard wall, but decided to instead bury her face in the much softer couch cushions. She had pushed him without even meaning to, but sometimes she forgot that almost 100 years lay between now and her own time and Pete seemed like an old fashioned man, even for the 80s. While people in late 21st century were pretty straightforward in their romantic advances someone from the 80s seemed much more reserved and careful. Clara had noticed his hesitation but not taken it seriously enough. Pete simply needed a little more time.   
And maybe so did Clara? She had only met him a couple of days ago, but she was certain he was what she wanted. He was much older, yes, and also constantly drunk, but he never failed to be kind and considerate. And he needed her, lonely as he was. It was that need that drew her to him. She had been desired and even loved, but never needed. 

 

**OOO**

 

Clara hadn't even realized she had fallen asleep until a banging sound woke her up. She felt a little disoriented at first but when she looked around the living room she soon determined the source of the noise to be someone outside of the flat.   
“Clara, are you there?” It was Pete's voice, followed by some more vigorous knocking.  
She picked herself up from the sofa and walked towards the door.  
“I'm coming, you can stop the noise,” she said right before she opened the door to the corridor.

Clara only had to look at Pete's figure leaning against the door frame to realize he hadn't been out for fresh air. Or had been and afterwards decided to get completely hammered.  
“Sorry, couldn't find my key,” he mumbled apologetically.  
Clara rolled her eyes at him and reached into the pocket of his coat, producing the key within seconds.  
“Oh.”  
“Yes, oh, come in,” Clara demanded, sounding a little more annoyed than she really was. She thought about apologizing but didn't think that Pete had actually paid attention to her tone of voice. He seemed even more out of it than during the first nights she had witnessed him come home drunk.  
When he didn't move Clara took the initiative and offered her arm supportively, almost dragging him inside the flat.  
She shook her head while almost carrying his dead weight through the living room.   
“How did you even get home?” she asked.  
“Veeeeery slowly,” he drawled.

Clara managed to shuffle him into the bedroom and convinced him to sit on the bed while she untied his shoes.  
“I'm sorry,” he said after a moment, his speech slurred, “I know I made a promise.”  
“Shh,” Clara hushed him and threw his shoes into a corner. She sat down next to his swaying figure, “Just sleep now, okay?”  
“No,” he insisted, taking Clara's hand and pressing a sloppy kiss to the back of it, “I am sorry. I let you down. In more than one way.”  
“We really should talk about it tomorrow, Pete. You need sleep.”  
“But I need to tell you. Right now. It's important.”  
Clara sighed. She really wasn't sure how much his drunken apologies meant and whether he wouldn't just have forgotten all about them the following morning, but she realized that she wouldn't get him to sleep unless he had said what he wanted to say.  
“Okay,” she said finally, “Go ahead.”  
She watched him for a moment, his drunken mind trying to find the words he wanted to say as he kept leaning in her direction. Yet he never let go of her hand.  
“I am terrified,” he admitted after a while, trying his best to speak distinctly, but not quite succeeding in it, “You're an angel. I want you more than anything. I am so sorry I couldn't.”  
“It's okay, Pete. We can try again,” Clara reassured him.   
“I want you to know. It's not you. But you deserve better. A young man, not some old ruin like me. I can't give you anything. I can't even get it up,” Pete's eyes wandered away to some other point of the room.  
Clara reached out and cupped his face in both her hands, forcing him to look at her again.  
“Listen to me,” she said determinedly, “I want you and as long as you want me we are going to find a way. We can take it slow, we can try different things.” His unfocused eyes slipped away from her again, “Look at me, Pete. Don't give up. We'll make it work, I promise.”  
He nodded slowly.  
“Can we go to sleep now?” Clara asked carefully, still holding his head in her hands.  
Pete took a deep breath.  
“I haven't been with a woman in over ten years,” he confessed. 

The last statement shocked Clara the most. She knew that his wife had left him a long time ago, but being the first woman after that, the first women he had let get close, that was something she hadn't expected.   
No wonder he was terrified. Clara with her fierce approach had probably overwhelmed him completely and all of a sudden she was the one feeling like she should apologize.

With no idea what to reply Clara leaned closer to press a soft kiss to his mouth.   
“Let's go to sleep,” she whispered and finally he obeyed and settled in a lying position.   
Clara covered them both with the duvet and wrapped her arm around him, resting her head on his chest. It didn't take him long to close his arms around her body and she heard him sigh in contentment.   
“Good night,” she said softly, but there was no response. Pete had already fallen asleep.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

Fingers were stroking through her hair when Clara woke up and she found Pete's arms still wrapped around her tightly. She thought about pretending to still be asleep just so she could enjoy this moment for a while longer, but the slightest stirring had already given her away.   
“Good morning,” he said sweetly, but Clara could still hear that there was so much more that he wanted to say to her as a shy kiss found its way to her head.  
“Good morning,” she replied and pressed herself closer against his chest.   
“Careful,” Pete chuckled, “You'll break me.”  
Clara looked up into his eyes and smiled. She saw that he was trying to smile back, but he was only looking at her as if he was about to utter another apology.   
“Listen, about last night,” he started, but Clara raised her hand to his face and pressed a finger to his lips.  
“It's okay,” she said earnestly, “I think we both said what we needed to say.”  
Pete took a deep breath.   
“How are you feeling?” Clara used this moment of silence to change the subject before he could say more.  
“Well, the shoulder is better. The pain medication they gave me for the other thing is quite effective. Not so much for the headache right now,” Pete said.   
Clara struggled to sit up next to him and placed a soft kiss on his temple.  
“Well, you've written quite a lot in the last two days. How about you take the day off and just relax?” she asked while gently stroking his hair, “We could start with a long breakfast in bed.”  
“That sounds lovely,” Pete agreed.   
“Good. You take your medication and try to sleep for a bit and I'll run to the bakery to get some fresh bread. If we're lucky it's still warm.”  
Pete turned to look at her for a moment and Clara started to wonder again what was really on his mind. Until he reached out and cupped her face in his hand to pull her closer.   
“You are an angel,” Pete whispered before his lips touched hers. 

 

**OOO**

 

Clara saw to it that Pete took his meds and went back to sleep. With any luck his headache would also be better by the time she returned from the bakery. She also stopped by the grocery store to buy some other supplies for their breakfast. Cheese, ham and even some fresh apples.  
When she returned to the flat it smelled of fresh coffee and she found Pete sitting on the bed, a steaming cup in one hand, his manuscript in the other.  
“Hey, didn't we agree on a break?” Clara asked teasingly.   
“I'm only reading,” Pete replied and quickly set the pages aside. He sounded more cheerful now than he had when Clara had left. Whether it was due to the fading headache or the whiskey that was probably in his coffee she couldn't tell.  
She prepared breakfast for them both and stacked everything neatly on the tray she found under the kitchen sink and made her way to the bedroom.   
“Who's going to eat all of that?” Pete asked with a grin.  
“We are,” Clara announced and set down the tray on a smooth part of the bed. 

She let herself fall down next to him and reached for the coffee to pour into her own mug. They talked while eating about every subject they could think of. His book. How it was going and how much longer it would take him to write. How tomorrow she would go out and try to look for a teaching job herself so she wouldn't get on his nerves all day and keep Pete from writing. They talked about literature, the books she had read since her arrival and how they had both liked them. 

It was already past noon when Clara decided they both should get some fresh air and go for a walk. Pete was reluctant at first, saying it was much too cold for a relaxing walk but eventually agreed. He suggested a quiet park that was only a half hour away and Clara happily wrapped herself in her borrowed coat and pushed him out of the flat.   
“It's beautiful,” Clara said as they walked the frozen pond.  
“It's more beautiful in summer. Now it's just freezing,” Pete commented.  
“Aw, don't be so grumpy,” she wrapped her arm more tightly around his, “You like it. Admit it.”  
“Yes, it's nice. The view is nice, the air is nice. I'm just saying it would be even nicer if it was warm,” he finally agreed, “Now, please, can we go back? My feet are falling off and I'm pretty sure yours are, too.”  
“My feet are fine,” Clara lied because she didn't want to admit that Pete was right.

By the time they got home Clara was shaking and happy to be back inside. Pete took her coat and she wrapped her hands around her upper arms and rubbed for warmth.   
“Okay, you were right,” she admitted, teeth chattering, “It _is_ cold outside.”  
“We should just go back to bed. It's already dark anyway,” Pete suggested.  
“No, I have a better idea. I'll draw us a really warm bath,” Clara said and was already heading for the bathroom.  
“Us?”   
Pete's voice made her turn around. Clara noticed how uncomfortable he seemed all of a sudden about the prospect of the two of them sharing a bathtub. She understood that he was nervous but it just made her grow more determined. Maybe if she got him into the same tub at the same time he would understand that there was absolutely nothing to be afraid of.   
“Yes, us,” she replied.  
“Are you sure that's a good idea? The tub is rather small.”  
“Yes, I am. We're both freezing and we'll save water.”  
“I'll let you go first, okay?” Pete asked carefully.  
But Clara had no intention of letting this go.   
“Remember when you made me shave you with that horrible knife?” Pete nodded. “I didn't want to but you said it would be fine. Well, this is similar. It's going to be fine. I promise.”  
That was an argument Pete couldn't say no to. Still reluctant he finally agreed.

When the bath was drawn Clara ushered him into the tub first, afraid he would find an excuse to back out once she was already in it. As he stripped out of his clothes Clara couldn't help but watch his lean body in motion. He was skinny and pale and she could see every little bit of muscle move under the skin of his back. She wanted to touch him, run her fingers all over, caress him, make him feel the affection she was holding for him. But she would have to find the right excuse to first.   
Once he stepped into the tub Clara moved around until she was standing right in front of Pete. There she slowly removed her shirt and unbuttoned her trousers before slipping them off her legs. Making sure he watched her doing it Clara unhooked her bra and let it fall to the ground. She saw Pete swallow hard as her fingers hooked into her knickers and she stripped off the last piece of clothing. His eyes were glued to her body again as she slowly made her way to the tub and stepped inside.  
“Well, that wasn't so bad, was it?” Clara asked as she sat down on the opposite end of the bathtub. The hot water warmed her up instantly.   
“No. You were right,” Pete replied, his voice betraying no emotion but contentment.  
“Turn around,” she ordered him, “I want to wash your back.”

Pete obeyed her and turned around inside the confined space of the tub. She could tell he was trying to avoid it but still she found their limbs knocking together here and there. Clara stretched out her legs on either side of him and reached for the sponge. She dipped it into the water and brought it back up to his shoulders, being especially careful around the right one. Clara could feel him relax more and more with every touch. She put the sponge aside and started massaging the left shoulder. Pete let out a sudden groan.  
“You're very tense,” Clara noted and moved her hands down his back.   
“Well, I've been crouched down over the typewriter for two days straight,” Pete explained, “But this feels good.”  
“Good. Just say when the pressure is too much, okay?”   
Clara moved carefully around his hurt shoulder, her touch more of a caress than a massage and suddenly she could feel his hands on her legs, stroking them gently. She wasn't even sure if he was aware of what he was doing or if it was an involuntary response to her touch, but she liked it.   
“Okay, now it's my turn,” Pete announced after a while and Clara happily agreed.   
They switched positions, her back now facing his chest. Pete cupped water inside his hands and released it over her shoulders, the warm drops spilling down all over her back.  
“Mhh, that is nice,” she hummed, smiling as his hands were stroking her skin.   
His grip was strong, yet still gentle when he began his massage and Clara moaned when he found the spot right next to her shoulder blade that had been bugging her for weeks.  
“Yes, right there,” she murmured dreamily when he circled the spot with his thumb.   
And suddenly Pete stopped.  
“Clara,” he began, his voice throaty.  
“What is it?” she asked, “Please, keep going.”  
For a moment there was no response and just when she was about to turn around and ask what was wrong she felt his hands on her hips. His lips were touching her neck. Reluctant, careful at first but as they moved down to her shoulders his kisses became more determined. One of his hands found its way to her breast, squeezing ever so lightly. Clara gasped when he ran his thumb over her hard nipple.   
She turned around just far enough to meet his gaze. Pete's eyes were darker than usual and Clara knew he was definitely aroused. He brought his mouth to hers in a longing kiss.  
“I want you,” he whispered hoarsely unto her lips.  
Clara reached into the water and her hand soon found his hardening member. Her heart skipped a beat in delight.   
“I want you, too,” she replied, “Let's dry off and go into the bedroom.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to thank all of my readers for their patience while I was struggling with this one. I know I should take it as a compliment that you all love this story so much, but instead I felt pressured and I don’t write well under pressure. It went up to the point that I felt nauseous when I opened the word file because I was asked about updates on this every single day for weeks. Writing is supposed to be fun. I don’t get paid for this. I have university and a job and other hobbies. And I love it that people ask for updates cause they like my story so much but this time it felt really, really nasty and it made me write other things in secret because I was afraid to get in trouble cause I wasn’t updating Empire. Please, don’t freak out if I don’t update for a bit. Yes, I sometimes take the time to write other things because I want to and that’s ok because it is supposed to be fun, not a chore.

Clara was the first to step out of the bathtub, followed quickly by Pete, who reached for the towel and wrapped it tightly around her. He dried her off in careful, rubbing movements that seemed more like a caress. When it was her turn Clara took the towel from him and swept it over his chest and shoulders, realizing now that her hands were trembling. Pete’s hands reached for her arms and the towel fell to the floor.  
“Oh,” Clara let out a tiny, insecure laugh, “I can’t believe I’m actually nervous.”  
“I take it as a compliment. Though it really is quite odd, seeing you almost jumped me last time,” Pete said with a wicked smile.  
“Well, when you take things slow there is more time to think and actually get nervous,” Clara explained.  
“Then let’s not wait any longer,” Pete placed a soft kiss on her hand and took Clara by the hand, slowly leading her through the living room into the bedroom.

Once they were inside the bedroom Clara suddenly had no idea what to do next. It was so much easier for her to just go with it, like she would have done that day in the living room when Pete had failed. But this, taking it slow, was unsettling her a little.  
Pete sat down on the bed, still naked. He watched her with a smile as she stood awkwardly in front of him, not knowing whether to cover herself or not. His erection was standing between his thighs and at the sight of it Clara was reminded again of how much she wanted him, how much her own sex was itching for him to be inside her.  
Suddenly her determination had gotten hold of her again and Clara walked up to Pete and in front of him she went down on her knees. She placed her hands on his knees and let them wander over his thighs, slightly scratching his skin with her nails. Her hands reached the base of his shaft and wrapped around him tightly. Under her grip Pete shifted slightly in anticipation. She brought her head down and licked across the tip, a sharp hiss escaping through his teeth as she continued to lick along the shaft of his erection. Clara glanced up and noticed that Pete has closed his eyes, a peaceful look on his face. She could barely imagine what it must be like to be touched like this for the first time after 10 years.  
She opened her mouth and slowly closed her lips around his tip, her tongue still playing alongside as Clara sucked him into her mouth. Pete winced at the sudden change in sensation and his hands wandered to the back of her head, his fingers playfully burying themselves in her hair. She sucked him gently, careful not to apply too much pressure. Pete moved against her, pushing his cock inside her mouth and Clara could hear his breathing quicken each time the tip broke through the barrier she created with her lips. His breaths soon turned into a series of groans that made Clara shudder and burn with want. She wanted so much to reach down and touch herself while she pleasured him with her mouth, but the insides of her lips were already becoming sore. Her own sex was tingling so much with unsatisfied lust that she couldn’t supress a moan coming from the back of her throat. 

Maybe Pete had sensed it, because his hands were leaving her head and wandered to her waist, gently pulling Clara away from him and onto the bed. He turned Clara onto her back and knelt over her, pressing a long and gentle kiss to her aching lips, pushing his erection deliciously against her sex that was now throbbing with desire. She pushed her hips up to meet him, but Pete held her down and instead began to trail her neck with kisses, moving his lips downwards, stopping only to pay a little more attention to her breast. Clara winced and drew in her breath as he sucked her nipple. She reached for his curly, grey hair and pulled him back up to her lips.  
“Do it,” she whispered breathlessly, “Fuck me.”  
Pete raised his head and looked at her, a smile on his face.  
“Say please,” he teased her, running a finger across the wetness of her aching clit.  
“Please,” Clara begged quietly and closed her eyes.  
A moment later she could feel his tip pushing against her entrance and Clara opened her legs a little further, ready for him to finally thrust inside her.  
She let out a soft groan when he entered her, more gently than she had anticipated. Pete gasped as she clenched around him. He pulled back and pushed back inside her again, slowly establishing a rhythm that Clara countered with the movement of her hips. Pete grunted as he pushed inside her, his breath ragged and hot on her lips. She hooked a leg around his waist to allow him better access and they rocked together, his erection hitting right into the centre of her lust. Clara pushed her head back into the pillow and bit down on her lips to supress a moan.  
“God, Clara,” Pete panted, his breathing accelerating even more, “I’m sorry.”  
His thrusts were becoming uncoordinated and Clara knew he was beyond the point of return. With another loud grunt he pushed inside her a final time before he grew still and Clara could feel his hot semen spread inside her.  
His body fell into the pillows next to her and Pete covered his face in his hands.  
“I’m so sorry, Clara. I’m sorry I didn’t last,” he said sincerely, still slightly out of breath.  
Clara turned around and wrapped her arm around his chest.  
“It’s okay,” she whispered softly, “You actually did very well. For the first time in 10 years.”  
Clara chuckled a little and placed a kiss on his lips.  
“I wanted to make it better. For you.”  
She took a deep breath. “You were great. Really. This time was all about you. We can make it about me the next time, okay? You really have nothing to be sorry for.”  
Pete sighed. “Okay. But just so you know. You were absolutely amazing,” his lips formed a big smile and he pressed a passionate kiss to her lips.

 

**OOO**

 

When Clara woke up in the middle of the night the bed next to her was empty. She felt Pete’s side of the bed but it was cold and she could hear the faint sounds of the typewriter coming from the living room.  
She grabbed the nearest piece of clothing she could find, one of Pete’s shirt and covered herself with it before she stepped through the door.

Clara found Pete like she had expected, sitting under the light of his desk lamp, carefully typing on his typewriter.  
“What are you doing?” Clara asked sleepily, “I thought you wanted to take a break from writing today.”  
Pete turned around abruptly and Clara realized she had startled him. He quickly covered his typewriter with his chest.  
“Clara, why aren’t you in bed?” he asked.  
“I woke up and you weren’t there. Come back to bed, Pete. Your novel can wait til tomorrow.”  
“Uhm,” he said reluctantly and Clara immediately knew that something was up, “I just need to write this idea down. I’ll be back in 10 minutes.”  
There was something so odd about his voice that made her entirely certain that Pete was lying to her. Whatever he was writing on that typewriter right now was anything but his novel. Yet Clara knew better than to start an argument at this time of night.  
“Okay. Please hurry,” she said simply and walked back to bed with a strange feeling in her stomach.


	12. Chapter 12

The smell of fresh coffee filled her nose when Clara woke up and as she opened her eyes, she spotted Pete standing next to the bed, wearing a bright smile and carrying a tray that held their breakfast.  
“Good morning,” she whispered sleepily, smiling at the prospect of fresh coffee and croissants and sat up in bed.   
Pete slipped under the blanket next to her and sat the tray down in front of them.  
“How do you justify us having breakfast in bed again? What’s the special occasion this time?” Clara asked and took a bite off the croissant.  
“You are the occasion,” Pete replied and looked at her in a way that made Clara feel slightly uncomfortable, as if he was expecting her to do something and she didn’t know what. Carefully she put the croissant back.  
“Me?”  
Pete said nothing for a while, but he reached for her hand and squeezed it lightly.  
“Clara, there is a question I need to ask you. It’s important.”

Her heart sank. That was the point in their relationship where he wanted to know about her. How she had really come to Glasgow, where she was from, what she was doing here and she knew he wouldn’t believe the truth. But she had also run out of believable lies.

“Yes?” Clara asked, her voice insecure. She didn’t dare look him in the eyes.  
“Clara, will you marry me?”

The question hung in the air and remained unanswered for a long moment. This was the last thing Clara had expected and surprised as she was she had no idea what her answer should be.   
“Clara?” Pete raised his eyebrows at her.  
“Yes?”  
“Is that a general yes or a yes to my question?”  
“Yes. No. I mean,” Clara took a deep breath, “This is rather unexpected.”  
“I know this is very sudden, but at least here my reasons,” Pete said calmly.  
She nodded. The worst that could happen was that it bought her time to gather her thoughts.  
“You know that I have feelings for you, I might even love you, Clara, but I am afraid there won’t be enough time to figure us out,” Pete explained, his voice suddenly very sad, “I know you came to Glasgow with nothing but the clothes you were wearing. Before I die I want to know that you are going to be okay. As my wife everything that I own would be yours. It’s not much, but it is a place to live and enough money to keep you afloat until you have found a job. Or enough to travel safely back home. I just want you to be taken care of.”

Clara was baffled by his explanation. She had assumed that his imminent death had a part to play in his sudden idea to marry her, but financial reasons she hadn’t suspected.   
“Pete,” she began carefully.  
“Please, at least think about it before you say no.”  
“I have. But the answer is still no,” Clara replied and looked into his sad, grey eyes, “You don’t have to worry about me. I can survive on my own. And I would indeed marry you, but not for these reasons.”  
“Well, what reasons would you like?”  
Clara sighed, her mind desperately trying to find a way to break it to him gently. But there was none.  
“Look at yourself, Pete,” she said, “You have wasted the last 10 years of your life drinking and doing a job you hate. You pushed me away at first because you thought you didn’t deserve me.”  
Pete averted his eyes and Clara knew she had found his weak spot. He didn’t really believe in this relationship, he couldn’t, not while he thought so little of himself that he thought himself unworthy of her affections.  
“What do you want me to do, Clara? I can’t change the past 10 years of my life. And I’m not really sure there is enough time for me to change what’s left of it.”  
“But you’re already trying, don’t you see?” Clara asked him excitedly, “You quit your job, you’re writing your novel and you drink a lot less. And each step has brought you closer to accepting that I want you. Finish it.”  
“How do you suggest I do that?” Pete asked seriously.   
Clara cupped his face in her hands and looked him in the eyes.   
“Become someone who thinks he deserves me. Finish your book, try making the best out of the time that remains.”  
“We might not have as much time as you think,” Pete argued.  
“I don’t care. I just want us to make the best of it.”

Pete leaned closer and brushed his lips against hers. When he pulled away again he was smiling.  
“You’re right. As soon as my book is finished I will find a clinic. If you insist that I must feel worthy of you, then that’s the only way to do it.”  
Clara smiled back at him.   
“Good. And I will go out today and see if I can find a job by annoying some headmasters. You will see, everything’s going to be fine.”

 

**OOO**

 

When Clara walked outside later that day she felt very confident. Not only because she was certain that some school or preschool was in need of help, but also because she felt that her relationship with Pete was slowly getting on the right track.  
She had known that he was troubled, but that was all the more reason for her to be very proud of him right now. Clara had given him a reason to want to change his life when Pete had thought it was already over. She would be there for him every step of the way and help him through it and maybe with a bit of luck they could still have a few happy years after he managed to kick his habit.


	13. Chapter 13

“I have good news,” Clara announced as she burst through the door.   
She was surprised to find Pete sitting on the sofa and not at his desk, where she was used to finding him every time she came home. He turned around, smiling at her.  
“I have good news as well,” he slowly rose from the couch and approached her with outstretched arms.  
Clara greeted him with a swift kiss on the mouth and Pete placed his arms around her hips.  
“You go first,” he said.  
The smile on her face widened.   
“I finally found a job,” Clara said excitedly, “Not full time and only pre-school but hey, it's a job. I'm starting next week and I can finally contribute to the bills. I was starting to feel like I'm using you.”  
“You weren't using me, Clara. It's not your fault you didn't find a job right away. And two weeks is pretty impressive. I know people who have been unable to find a job for years.”  
“Well,” she hummed, “I can be really persistent. And persuasive. And yes, originally they had no vacancy.”  
Pete chuckled.  
“But how about your good news?”

He left their embrace and walked over to the desk, retrieving a huge stack of papers. Carefully he handed them over to Clara.  
“Your novel?” she asked, slightly confused.  
“It's finished,” Pete said simply, his voice betraying no emotion, which Clara found a little odd. She'd have thought he would be over the moon, having finally finished his life long dream of writing a book. Yet now that it was finished he didn't seem quite happy.  
“That's great,” Clara replied, mirroring his tone of voice, “But why aren't you happy about it?”  
Pete shrugged.  
“I don't know. I guess I expected it to be . . . more.”  
“More what?”  
“I don't know,” Pete admitted and put the stack aside again, “You can read it later if you want to.”  
“I will,” Clara said, sounding a little more worried than she had intended to, “Are you okay? I just get the feeling you're not so well today.”  
He took a deep breath.   
“I did it. I called a clinic today.”  
“But that's also great news. What did they say?” she wanted to know.  
“They told me to check in tomorrow,” he explained, “The first four weeks I won't be allowed to leave the clinic. You can visit me, but I can't come home. After that I'll have to come in every day, but I'll be able to be with you here.”  
“Well, that doesn't sound too bad,” Clara said.  
“The treatment's not gonna be easy,” Pete said simply, “And I'm scared. What if I can't do it?”

Clara stepped closer and took his hand, squeezing it lightly.   
“Don't worry, Pete. Just remember that you want to get better. I will visit you every single day and when the treatment is over you can ask me that question of yours again,” she let out a nervous laugh. Yes, once Pete had finished his treatment she would marry him, no matter if he still didn't think he deserved her. She owed that much to him.  
Without a warning Pete suddenly pulled her closer to him and hugged her so tightly she could barely breathe for a moment. Clara closed her arms around his back and breathed in the faint scent of cologne and whisky that she had come to associate with him.   
“I love you so much, Clara,” he whispered into her hair, “Without you I'm sure I'd already be dead.”  
“I love you, too,” she replied quietly. 

How long they remained standing like that Clara didn't know, but when he let go of her Clara could see that he wiped away a tear and put on a smile again.  
“You know what we should do?,” he asked her, “We should make the best of our last evening together. I'm not sure how strict the rules of the clinic are, so we should definitely use this evening in the best way possible.”  
“You still owe me that dance,” Clara suddenly remembered.  
“Right,” Pete said, “That dance. We'll do that. But first I will go down to the pub and say goodbye. They'll think I kicked the bucket otherwise.”  
“And I'll prepare dinner in the meantime,” she said, feeling her spirits return, “Say goodbye to your colleagues. Or ex-colleagues. Whatever. But don't take too long.”  
“I promise,” Pete said sincerely and pressed another kiss to her mouth before he grabbed his coat and closed the door behind him.

 

**OOO**

 

Clara felt herself getting angry when Pete didn't show up after she was finished with dinner. But she became absolutely furious when the clock struck 10 and Pete had still failed to show up. She should have known he couldn't resist one last drink. She should have gone with him and protected him from himself.  
Angrily Clara grabbed her coat and stormed out of the apartment. The wind was icy, but it didn't manage to calm her down. Quite the opposite. In her mind Clara was already preparing a speech which she would give him once he had sobered up.  
Clara kicked open the bar door and stepped into the smoke to find a rather strange sight. People were forming a circle around something and the chatter of everyone that was usually so loud somehow seemed muffled tonight. She stepped closer and tried out find Pete in the crowd but the only familiar face she could see was that of the young woman that Pete had talked to a while ago. She was crying.   
When she spotted Clara the young woman quietly shook her head and turned back around, opening a gap in the crowd for Clara to see through. And that's when she saw him.   
_No_ , she thought immediately. _No. No. No. No._ It couldn't be. For a moment it felt like her heart had stopped and was about to burst inside her chest. She felt hot. Clara hadn't even noticed that she had walked up to him or how she sat down beside him. She didn't notice the mumbling voices around her, or the words the young woman spoke to her. No force in the universe could have distracted her from staring at Pete's lifeless body leaning against the wall.


	14. Epilogue

Three days later Clara finally found the energy to get out of bed. Her intention had been to read Pete's book and she had started, but as soon as she had reached the point at which the protagonist fell madly in love with a woman called Clara she had to put it aside again. She busied herself cleaning his desk, arranging and rearranging the items on it, dusting off the typewriter when she noticed something stuck in it. Clara carefully pulled it out and realized it was a letter addressed to her. Quickly she unfolded it. 

_My dearest Clara,_  
when you read this I will be gone. I know I won't make it through therapy and you know it as well. I'm sorry that I couldn't be more for you. I'm sorry that you only came into my life when it was already too late. But I want you to know that for me you still made all the difference in the world. Thank you for loving me when I had forgotten what it felt like to love and be loved.   
I was expecting you to turn down my marriage proposal, although I had really hoped otherwise, so I wrote my last will in advance, in which I am leaving everything to you. I have no other living relatives, but should any problems occur, don't worry. I have spoken with the landlord and paid the rent for six months in advance. I also left money in the Ginsberg poetry book that should help you cover your bills until you have found work. I am sorry if you feel like I have disregarded your wishes, but I needed to know that you would be taken care of. My hope is it that you take what I'm offering you and use it to build a better future for yourself.   
I am also leaving you my finished book. Please, read it and know that every single word in it belongs to you, for without you I would have never had the courage to write it.   
Thank you for your love and kindness, thank you for giving me hope when I needed it the most and know that I loved you every second you were part of my life. 

_Pete_

 

Clara had just finished reading the letter and was about to open the second document, which she suspected to be his testament, when suddenly she heard a strange, whooshing sound. She turned around to see a blue box materialize in the living room.  
She stared at it with her mouth open for a few seconds until a man came stumbling out of it. Clara recognized him, though it felt like she had met him in another lifetime.   
“Clara! There you are,” the Doctor said excitedly, “I found you! See! I found you. Oh, the weeping angels think they're so smart but I tracked your signal back and forth through time and I found y-”  
Clara slapped him across the face before he had the chance to finish his sentence. Baffled the Doctor stared at her.  
“Yes, okay, I might have taken a while. Sorry about that. But I'm here to take you home. See?” he said, pointing at his blue box.  
She did nothing but glare at him.   
“Why do I get the feeling you're not very happy to be rescued?”  
Clara thought about it for a moment, she thought about all the things she wanted to yell at him. How she had only ended up in Glasgow because of him, how she could've died on the streets hadn't it been for Pete's kindness, how she fell in love with a dying man and now he was gone and it was all the Doctor's fault. She wanted to kick and punch him, but instead she remained silent.

“Clara, help me out here. Do you want to go home? Cause I can take you home. In fact, I could take you anywhere in time and space that you want to go,” the Doctor said.  
Clara's face suddenly lit up.  
“Could you take me back to Glasgow 10 years ago?” she asked.  
If he could do that, she would be able to see Pete again, before he would start to destroy his own life. She could help him, really help him. They could be together for many, many happy years.  
“Why?” the Doctor asked cautiously.   
“I met someone. Here in Glasgow. He died.”  
Suddenly the Doctor's whole demeanour changed.  
“I'm sorry, Clara. I can't do that. I can take you anywhere, but I cannot allow you to change the past. It would create a paradox that could tear this whole universe apart.”  
“Why not?” Clara's eyes suddenly began to water, she raised her voice without meaning to, “It was all your fault. It was your fault I got stuck here and fell in love. The least you can do is fix this. Doctor, fix this for me.”  
“I'm so sorry. I really am. Whoever he was, I'm sure he must have loved you, too, but it is not worth tearing the universe apart for.”  
“That's easy for you to say!”  
“No, actually, it's not, because my wife attempted to do exactly the same for me and I stopped her. Clara, please, let me take you home. Or anywhere in time and space. But this I cannot do for you.”

Clara walked back to the desk and grabbed Pete's manuscript and his letters.  
“We didn't even get to dance together properly,” she said more to herself than to the Doctor.   
Finally Clara turned back around.  
“Take me home, then,” she said sadly, with little determination.  
“Okay. Are you sure? We could take a little detour to the moon or some other lovely planet.”  
“No, thank you. If the universe can't give me Pete back, I don't want anything else to do with it. Just take me home.”


End file.
